GUN SALAD

To the left of the casino’s main entrance–directly across the gambling parlor from the bar–stood an open threshold leading to a wide corridor. A clean, expensive-looking red carpet ran the length of the hallway, stopping just short of the restrooms. At its midpoint was a set of double doors, hewn from the same sanguine-colored local wood as every other door in the place, and behind them lay the grandest theater in town: the Port Pistola playhouse.

Lazar had taken the time to brag about it on their way over. It was “his legacy”, apparently–the thing he’d be remembered for among his criminal-minded kin. “Before I opened the playhouse,” he’d said, “This casino was barely profitable. It attracted only slugless laborers and degenerates. My greatest achievement was seeing the need of this community for new entertainments and acting upon it. By building the theater, I drew in new customers–imaginative people, patrons of the arts… And, through proximity to our many games of chance, turned them into degenerates.”

It seemed an odd thing to Roulette, to be so in love with one’s own ability to cheat and fleece the masses. But, as she was coming to realize, that seemed to be her new employer’s greatest pleasure: getting one over on those more powerless than himself. And here she was, his newest source of fodder, hunched in front of the dressing room mirror in the playhouse’s backstage area as she prepared to follow through with her ridiculous, last-ditch attempt at a scam of her own. 

He wouldn’t be easy to fool. But what else could she do? It was either this or weeks of flaunting herself for people she didn’t even know, all to appease him and maybe work off her considerable debt. That didn’t strike her as any kind of attainable goal, though; she considered herself a good judge of character, and Lazar didn’t come across as the type of man who’d honor his commitments to someone he already had under his thumb. She’d seen enough of life in Trigger City to know how the game was played. Once somebody owed you something, it wasn’t too hard to trick them into feeling they owed you more. 

…If you were cunning and unscrupulous enough, that is. And Lazar had both traits in spades.

She made ample use of the available stage makeup, taking comfort in the familiar motions of powdering her face. Cosmetics were a luxury she was denied for much of her life. They were hard to get out on the range, and even after she’d moved on to Trigger City it’d been weeks before she had funds enough to splurge on herself. Once she did, though, reinventing herself–inside and out–became her raison d'être. Her makeup, her fashion, her attitude became a bulwark against the influence of the helpless girl she’d once been. So now, even as Lazar’s muscleheads leered at her from their place by the door, she felt invincible. Looking fierce reminded her that she was fierce.

And maybe, just maybe, looking fierce enough would deemphasize the fact that she didn’t have a comedic bone in her body.

A comedian. What was she thinking? Why had she gone and told Lazar that comedy, of all things, was her special talent? She’d loved to tell jokes as a kid, of course, but so did everyone. It was in adulthood that most people realized how painfully unfunny they actually were, though, and relegated their enjoyment of humor to hobby status. They certainly didn’t consider it as something they’d do for a living

. That took actual creativity. Talent. Practice. Roulette had none of that. She had no material. She had nothing.

Lazar shouted something from the house of the theater; Roulette couldn’t tell what. His hired hands, however, had heard him loud and clear:

“You are expected on the stage, now, miss,” one paraphrased, gesturing toward the sole exit left unobstructed by he and his coworker’s big, stupid bodies.

“Got any tips for me, boys?” she asked flatly, rising from her place at the vanity.

“Be funny.”

“Oh, wow. Ha-ha-ha. You sure you don’t wanna do the routine instead of me?” She’d hoped that insulting her minders would calm the butterflies in her stomach, but all it did was earn her a couple of glares. With a sigh of resignation she turned from them and mounted the steps leading up to the stage. A moment later she was striding out under the hot lights of the playhouse proper, with Lazar looking on from a seat somewhere toward the back of the house. “So I can hear how well you project,” he’d explained.

She faced the rows upon rows of empty seats. The lights above were so bright that she could hardly make them out, much less Lazar’s form, in the darkness of the theater. No doubt that would change as her eyes adjusted, but for now she felt as though she were addressing an empty room–a comforting thought, considering the alternative.

“Well, how-dee Port Pistola!” she called, breaking the expectant silence that had set in since her reluctant arrival on-stage. “The name’s Roulette, and I’m here to tell you some jokes! So get your sides ready for some side-splitters, and your knees ready for some real knee-slappers while you’re at it!”

Oh god. Was this actually happening?

“Y’know, I just sailed in from Trigger City, and boy are my arms tired… From holdin’ up my gramma’s most spacious pantaloons the whole way, o’course! Had to boot her off the raft halfway over–she was weighin’ us down a tad, y’understand– but it was worth it so’s I could be here to entertain you fine folks!”

Roulette couldn’t believe it. She was actually doing it, kind of. She didn’t really know if she was funny, but at least she was producing words… For the moment. Her mouth was getting awful dry, though, and she was starting to sweat like a Larse grizzly in midsummer.

She issued a hacking cough and made a distinctly unladylike sound with her mouth, trying to work up enough saliva to keep her routine going. She couldn’t tell whether that helped or hurt her chosen comedy persona, but she wasn’t hearing so much as a giggle from Lazar either way. She forged onward.

“Speakin’ of boots, us Wessoners consider ‘em somethin’ of a delicacy! It’s true!” she exclaimed, figuring that making a joke of her heritage would be her best shot at getting a laugh as a fledgling comic. “Those fancy city people take everythin’: all the food. All the slugs. All the ed…Ed-u-cay-shun. Out on the range, shoe leather is all we got sometimes! Speakin’ a which, all these jokes have really worked up an appetite…”

While Roulette was in the midst of pulling a boot off to mime the act of eating it, the theater doors suddenly parted to admit a new arrival. The lighting made it difficult to place who it was, but she could see well enough to identify them as masculine. They stood by the door for a moment while she gnawed at the air near the sole of her boot, eventually moving to settle into the seat right next to Lazar. The two men laughed and greeted each other loudly before returning their attention to her comedy act.

“That will be quite enough, miss!” Lazar called, “You are quite terrible - the worst I have ever seen.”

“Oh YEAH?” Roulette hit back, hands flying to her hips (and leaving her boot to plummet loudly to the floor), “Well, how ‘bout THIS? Knock-knock!”

A moment of puzzled silence ensued. “...What?”

“It’s a knock-knock joke! We love ‘em in Wesson– this is where you say ‘who’s there?’”

“...Very well. Who is there?”

“Gun Czar!” she replied, gesturing for him to keep it going. “Now you say ‘Gun Czar who?’”

“This is a very strange joke,” he complained.

“Just do it!”

He sighed audibly; impressive, considering how far he was from the stage. “Gun Czar who?”

“You no-account, lily-livered sons-of-guns best be packin’ a whole heap of heat,” she bellowed, grinning from ear to ear, “‘Cuz Gun-Czar what it’s gonna take to get me off this stage!”

The two men just sat there for a moment, stunned, following the delivery of her unconventional joke. Then, suddenly, Roulette’s ears were graced with the most welcome sound she’d heard all day:

The new arrival laughed. Not a timid, polite laugh either–a raucous one, as if she’d well and truly struck him square in the funny bone.

“Oh my, oh my… Cousin, she is truly awful.” she heard him gasp, leaning on the casino magnate’s shoulder for support.

“I know, I know,” Lazar groaned, “You see what I have to deal with? Nobody would pay to see this. I will have to find another way to resolve her debts”

“How much does she owe?” the newcomer asked, “Marka has the mind of a child, he would love this.”

“Twelve goldslugs worth,” Lazar answered uneasily, “But, cousin, you cannot be serious. Surely the family has better uses for that money than retaining an… Idiot… Like her purely for one man’s entertainment.”

“His daughter will love it too,” the man replied, dismissing Lazar’s concerns with a wave of his hand. “You! Girl! What do you say I pay off your debt, and you come work for the patriarch of the family instead?"

"Who's askin'?" she called, squinting down at him from the stage. The lanky man rose, then, striding forward until he stood in the same blinding light she'd been coping with.

"My name is Diallo," he answered with a disconcerting smile. "Now, let us go somewhere your… 'Talents' will be better appreciated."